


Naranjas

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fernando runs away to Sevilla and finds Sergio, a bull fighter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naranjas

**Author's Note:**

> written in 2007.

Fernando finds himself driving at 124 kilometers an hour towards Sevilla one sweat-drenched summer evening because, a) he walked in on his girlfriend fucking his roommate after his calculus final, b) his mother stopped paying for his World of Warcraft account then c) invited his now ex-girlfriend over for dinner and she d) brought his shit-eating roommate with her.

He’d been in his room, sulking since, two days before, his mother had told him in no uncertain terms that not only was she no longer paying for his WoW account, she was forbidding him to ever play again. He was level 70. 70. And a guild master. You didn’t just walk away from that, he tried to tell her. She said she wanted grandchildren and, holy mother of God help her, this was the only way she was going to get them. So he could stop crying.

He overhears his mother talking to her friends in the kitchen when he rises late one morning. Standing behind the doorframe, his mother runs through the litany of his failures, then begins to ask the questions that are the prerogative of every mother.

“What happened to that Olalla girl he brought home over Christmas? Did they remember her?” (Of course they did. Olalla was unforgettable.) “Such a lovely girl. Why didn’t he invite her over? She lives nearby.” His mother’s friends coo in agreement.

“Or maybe that friend of his, Cesc. Smart, and so polite. Oh, I wish Fernando would spend more time with people his own age, not locked up in his room on the computer.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that the girl he was going to marry, with the irresistible laugh and porcelain hands, cheated on him with his brilliant, clever, oh so polite roommate, and damn it all, it hurts. He was supposed to get married and have kids, settle into a pleasant domestic haze, and occasionally go out and get drunk with Cesc. Not watch as Cesc fucked Olalla into the mattress.

Life can only continue to grow spectacularly worse. Inspired, his mother invited Olalla over for dinner. “And she’s bringing you friend Cesc! Isn’t that wonderful, Fernando? They’ll be over in a few hours. Change into something nice.”

Under Fernando’s window there is a plastic slide, the kind that, when you’re five years old, is the coolest thing in the world. He’d grabbed his keys, his wallet and a change of clothes and sat in his window sill, his legs dangling over the edge. He managed to maneuver himself onto the slide, and from there to the ground.

He arrives in the outskirts on Sevilla sometime after midnight and checks into the first hotel he sees. It’s old and broken down, with Gypsy children sulking urine-drenched stairwells, but he doesn’t really care. It’s not university and not home, and that’s all that matters.

When he wakes up the next morning, the first thing he notices is the reddish stain on the wall, eerily bloodlike. The next is the rat (or maybe a mouse, he isn’t quite sure) calmly regarding him from the bedside table. He checks out and drives into the old town.

The winding streets are packed with confused tourists and irate locals, but he finds a parking place, locks his car and begins to walk aimlessly through the streets.

Sevilla suits his mood – hot and dusty, but also dark and twisted. The streets are barely wide enough to accommodate a car, and paved in rough cobbles. The houses, although brightly painted and adorned with wrought-iron lace, are often dilapidated, with gaping holes in the walls and graffiti scrawled over the walls. He ends up sitting by the river, noontime heat melting his brain, looking up at the Torre del Oro, and trying to remember his high school history lectures. He nearly screams when someone sits down next to him.

Someone with shoulder length brown hair, bronzed skin, a smile more blinding than the Mediterranean sun and, was that lip gloss?

“This may seem a little weird,” the stranger preferences his remarks with, never a good sign in Fernando’s opinion, “but I was wondering if you were looking for some place to stay.” Fernando stares. “What?” he finally manages.

“Well, I saw you wandering around earlier and you looked lost. And you’re carrying a backpack that looks like it has clothes in it. I don’t normally do this, see, but my roommate just moved out, and I’m going to lose my flat unless I can find a new one, and my flat is like, the nicest flat in the whole world. My name’s Sergio, by the way. Wait – you do speak Spanish, right?”

“Yeah- but…”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not some creepy old man who molests people or anything. And I know how to cook really well. You’ll love my cooking, trust me. Rent’s pretty cheap too, well, not really cheap, but not expensive, and once you see my place, oh my God, you’ll never want to live anywhere else. Please?”

Fernando’s head is reeling, between the heat, Sergio’s chatter and the smell of his cologne. Nice smell. He really needs to get out of the sun, which must be the only reason moving in with Sergio seems like a brilliant idea.

“Sure. But I’m only going to be here for the summer, then I’m going back to university.”

“That’s fine! Come on, let’s go!” Sergio stands up. “Don’t you want to see?” Fernando nods and follows Sergio. “And sorry, what’s your name?”

“Fernando Torres.”

“That’s a nice name. I have a cousin named Fernando. He’s an asshole. But I’m sure you’re nice. And watch out for the horse shit.”

Fernando blinks at the abrupt change of subject. “Horse shit?’

“The stupid tourists ride around in their horse drawn carriages. And the horses shit everywhere. Once I stepped in a pile in brand new shoes. Brand new.”

Fernando follows Sergio, winding past cars and buggies, listening to an endless succession of anecdotes, and responding with the occasional “Really? Wow.” It’s nice to hear someone’s voice other than his mother’s. He’s not sure if this really counts as conversation, but if it does, it’s the first he’s had in a while.

Sergio’s apartment is all that he said it was. On the third floor of one of the many solemn houses that inhabit the streets of Sevilla, it has tiled floors and a view of the Giralda that is simply breathtaking. The kitchen is cleaned to a standard that Fernando’s mother would approve of, but the rest of the flat is piled with books and clothes in approximately equal measure.

“Sorry,” Sergio blushes. “I never really got around to cleaning all this up. Anyway, here’s the flat. Your room’s over there, I think the sheets are clean. I cook but you have to do the dishes, and we can clean up everything else when we feel like it. That’s about it.”

Fernando nods, taking it all in. He remembers he needs to call his mother soon, he’s been gone for nearly a day. And get job, if he wants to be able to pay rent. Job. Something he can ask Sergio. “Where do you work? I need a job and I was wondering…” His voice peters out. He expected that once he got out of the heat, his brain would start functioning again, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Sergio’s shoulders tighten a little. “I’m a bullfighter,” he says defensively. Fernando nods, not really sure what the appropriate response to that is. Perhaps encouraged by Fernando’s lack of reaction, Sergio continues. “You have no idea how many people hate me for that. It’s stupid! It’s beautiful, it’s elemental, it’s art. It’s more than just killing, it’s celebrating life. People just don’t understand.” He’s gesturing broadly with his hands, then smiles ruefully. “Sorry. I tend to get worked up about it.” Fernando nods again. He’s never really thought about bullfighting one way or another, but now doesn’t seem to be a good time to say that.

Sergio pushes his hair out of his eyes. “But a job for you.” He blows a stream of air out of the corner of his mouth. “I know! I have a friend who owns a book shop, you could work there.”

Before it’s had a chance to sink in, Sergio’s pushed him back out the door and through the streets, and he’s shaking hands with a wizened old man who tells him to be at work at 8 sharp the next morning. Then the man starts what proves to be a long conversation about some bull Sergio’s facing soon and Fernando wanders into the back of the store, where he finds the contemporary fiction section.

Sergio pulls him out a hundred pages later, and once more they make their dash through town. Fernando’s almost gotten used to jumping out of the way of crazed taxi drivers and walking on the uneven cobbles by the time they return to Sergio’s and his apartment.

While Sergio’s making dinner, Fernando retreats to his room and calls his mother.

“Hi Mom, it’s Fernando.”

“Thank God! I was so worried about you, niño. Where have you been?”

“I’m in Sevilla, Mom. I’m-”

“Sevilla, why are you in Sevilla? Come back home this instant. Do you know what the neighbors are saying about you?”

“Mom, I have a job. I’m just going to stay here for the summer. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal! Soon, you’ll drop out of university and end up being a truck driver like that Jose Antonio Reyes! He went to Sevilla, and then, bam! No future.”

“Mom, he was from Sevilla. And he didn’t become a truck driver because he went to Sevilla, he’s a truck driver because he’s stupid.”

“Exactly! My son will not become stupid a Sevillan truck driver! Come home this instant, Nando.”

“No, Mom. I can’t. I – just can’t. Ok? Love you. Bye.”

Phone call no longer hanging over his head, Fernando walks into the kitchen with the intent of helping Sergio make dinner. Sergio laughs, refuses his offers for help, sits him down at the kitchen table and asks him for the story of his life. Distracted by the elusive scent of orange that seems to diffuse off Sergio, Fernando agrees.

“Son of a bitch,” Sergio proclaims after Fernando’s finished. “I have a sword, I can kill him if you want.”

Fernando’s grateful Sergio’s ignoring the moisture building in the corners of his eyes. “No, it’s fine. I mean, it happens to everyone, right?”

Sergio pats his shoulder, which should be awkward but isn’t. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. Eat. It’s good for you.”

They settle into a rhythm, Fernando waking up early to open up the store and coming home late, to find Sergio cooking dinner or watching TV. He’s not really sure what Sergio does during the day – presumably he trains somewhere, with a red cape and a bull. Some days, Sergio is a bubbly bundle of energy, talking and laughing incessantly. Other days, Sergio sulks around the house and replies to Fernando’s inquires with the long rants about the homogenization of Spanish culture.

Despite this, Sergio’s close to the ideal roommate. His cooking is superb, he pays his half of the rent on time. He never, as far as Fernando can tell, brings anyone home, which is odd, considering he’s Sergio, and Fernando expected him to be fucking his way across the length and breadth of Sevilla. Or maybe he already has, and is just taking a sabbatical. And he smells like oblivion, citrusy and sharp. One day when Sergio’s out, Fernando steals some of Sergio’s cologne and sprays it on his sheets. He stops waking up with dreams about Olalla’s hands, and the pang of remembrance is dulling in the Sevillian heat.

There’s a bullfight nearly every Sunday, and Fernando’s stopped noticing. His boss at the shop goes to every one, and the next day, sings Sergio’s praises to Fernando. Sergio comes home, loud, happy and high on adrenaline, and keeps Fernando up, telling him the blow-by-blow of the fight, each thrust seemingly branded in Sergio’s memory. Fernando listens, mostly because Sergio pretends to care when Fernando tells him about setting a new high score in Quake.

Five weeks after his arrival in Sevilla, one Sunday marked by haze and church bells, Fernando closes up the shop early and walks home. The streets are quieter than usual, whether it’s the fight or the weather, he can’t be sure, but the only other person he sees is a nun, her habit sweeping the streets. He smiles at her as he passes by- his mother would want him to. He calls her every few nights. She asks him three things: is he eating well, is he going to church, and does he have a girlfriend yet? She’s always disappointed when he answers in the negative for two of those three.

The flat is empty, Sergio won’t be home for another few minutes, so he grabs a Coke out of the refrigerator and boots up his computer. He really should be starting his reading for history, but he can’t be bothered. Maybe tomorrow.

He’s still playing when Sergio comes into home, two hours later, heralded by the slamming of the door. He half-turns in his chair when Sergio walks into his room, face tear stained.

“What’s wrong?” Fernando asks, saving and minimizing his game as his rises to meet the other man.

Sergio responds by crushing his mouth on to Fernando’s, sucking at his lower lip and, when Fernando parts his lips in shock, running his tongue over the roof of Fernando’s mouth. His hands clutch at Fernando’s shirt and he traps Fernando up against the wall, their bodies flush to each other.

Abruptly, Sergio pulls his mouth away and buries his face in Fernando’s shoulder, leaving Fernando’s head spinning and his lungs desperate for air.

“He died.” Sergio’s voice cracks. “The matador that went before me, Joaquin Sanchez. One minute the crowd was cheering, and then the bull-” Sergio takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out, the air running along Fernando’s shoulder like velvet. “And life is just too fucking short for us to be dancing around like this.” At some point, Fernando realizes his hands have begun stroking over Sergio’s back. The fabric of his shirt is soft, and beneath it, the muscles of his back are supple.

Sergio looks up, his eyes heavy with tears. And because it’s Sergio, and because he smells more like blood than oranges, Fernando kisses him back.

It isn’t as awkward as Fernando feared it might be. Of course, Sergio knows exactly what he’s doing, and he manages to explain things to Fernando relatively calmly. Fernando’s heart nearly stops when Sergio slides one slick finger into him, but Sergio kisses him while he works in another finger, and he tastes inexplicably like bubblegum. Fernando thinks he could get used to being fucked by Sergio very easily. Which is good, because Sergio chooses that moment to pull his fingers out and fuck Fernando senseless.

Sergio showers while Fernando lies, dazed, on Sergio’s bed, half-dried semen sticky on his stomach. Outside, the bells on the Giralda clang noisily, and in through the open window he hears the city slowing fall asleep. Sergio coughs, and he looks up to see him draped in a low-slung towel, eyes drinking in Fernando.

Fernando almost blushes, then thinks that would be a little stupid, considering what they just did. He settles for starring back.

“The day we met, I saw you park your car and I followed you across the city for two hours trying to think of something to say to you,” Sergio says, finally.

Fernando stretches languidly and yawns. “I’m glad you did. You’re a good cook.”

Sergio snorts. “Get your lazy ass out of my bed and take a shower so I can change the sheets.”

Fernando puts off telling his mother for as long as he can, but when his return to university is five days away, packing up his belongings and watching Sergio mope around the house, he knows he can’t delay it anymore. He waits until Sergio reluctantly leaves to buy groceries before he dials.

His mother does not yell, she cries. And she tells him to come home and pick up his stuff – she doesn’t want him living in her house anymore.

“How can you sell your soul for this, Nando?” she wails. He doesn’t have an answer that will ever satisfy her.

He and Sergio drive to his house the next afternoon. His mother has left the key on the doorstep and a note. I’m next door. Leave the key. They pack up his books and his computers. Sergio is quiet. Once they’ve carried the last box out to the car, Sergio turns to Fernando. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Fernando shakes his head. “Can I leave my stuff at your place?” He grabs Sergio’s hand in his own and squeezes it.

Sergio smiles. “Sure.”

The train ride from Madrid to Sevilla is only a few hours, and in Fernando’s opinion, it’s worth it to miss out on a Friday night getting drunk if it means spending Saturday morning tracing the outlines of Sergio’s abs with a tired finger.

He meets Sergio’s family over Christmas. They’re every bit as noisy and outspoken as Sergio, and most of his aunts are even better cooks. They feed him compulsively and ask him about Madrid as though it was another country. Sergio’s girl cousins giggle whenever he walks by and whisper among themselves, and Sergio’s brother, shocked to hear Fernando’s never been to a football game, drags them all to a Sevilla FC game. Fernando goes back to school five pounds heavier, wearing a Sevilla jersey. The aunts send him boxes of cookies every week, so many that he starts giving them away to everyone he knows.

He graduates that summer. None of his family goes, although the day before, one of his cousins called and told him his mother refuses to mention his name in the house, but that everyone is thinking of him. In spite, or perhaps because of this, Sergio’s family shows up in force, down to the babies and the third cousins he’s never met.

Fernando moves back to Sevilla and writes virus detection software all day long, Sergio bullfights every Sunday, traveling across Spain, and earning a reputation as a fearless and artful matador.

During their third summer together, Fernando proposes to Sergio, out by the river, near the Torre del Oro. Fernando calls his mother and leaves her a message, inviting her to the wedding. He never hears back.

It’s just a small, civil ceremony, but they both wear suits. Sergio’s fingers are shaking when he gives Fernando his ring, and Fernando would mock him, but his are shaking, too.

They walk out hand in hand, Sergio running his callused finger over the gold band on Fernando’s, when they see Fernando’s mother, standing hunched by the door. They regard each other carefully, each unwilling to break the silence, until Sergio invites her to his parents’ house for the reception. She accepts warily.

“Are you going to adopt?” is the first thing Fernando’s mother says to him in almost three years.

Fernando smiles mistily and looks at Sergio giving his littlest niece a piggy-back ride. “Maybe in a few years.”

His mother folds her arms and looks at him for a long time. “Good. I want grandchildren before I die.”


End file.
